Of Hotwired Wives and Nearly Stolen Jets
by DiVaGiRl13
Summary: Joe Solomon pitied whoever decided to date Matthew's child. Because even as early as birth, Cameron Morgan had the epitome of abnormal families. But hey, on the bright side, at least it kept things entertaining. Written for "Previous Generation" Challenge. One-shot.


**Disclaimer: I do not own, all rights are reserved to Ally Carter. Plot is mine.**

_**(Author's Note)**_**: **I finally read Out of Sight, Out of Time. I daresay it's the best of the entire series. It's just kind of—SPECTACULARLY AMAZING AND EVERYTHING WONDERFUL for me. Anyways, a plot bunny has bit me, thus resulting in this one-shot. While I'd like to think I have pretty good grammar, a mistake could have slipped by—**anyone willing to beta this?**

Family and friendship fluff, a la diva. And because babies are beyond adorable.

Please enjoy!

* * *

Joe Solomon never thought he had ever seen someone look so damn happy in his twenty three years of living.

It was a regular day. He had managed to snag a booth in a local café, successfully beating the lunch rush that would undoubtedly swarm the restaurant, as it did nearly every day like clockwork. Lips absentmindedly sipping at his freshly brewed coffee, Joe eyed the steady stream of people pooling in from the doorway, intense as an eagle. It was a kind of game he had created—seeing as he could not name a single time where he caught his best friend in a crowd. If Joe Solomon was not a man of cold hard facts, he would have entertained the idea that Matthew Morgan was part ghost—being able to cloak himself or just up and vanish into thin air at any given moment.

But seeing as he was _Joe the freaking Wise Guy Solomon_: he had no such qualms.

That is, until someone whispered in his ear: "What're you looking at?"

Calmly setting his mug down, he turned to see the grinning face of one Matthew Morgan. Joe knew he looked unsurprised, impassive face cool as steel, but his inner being had jumped with a rapidly thumping heart and promptly choked on his cup of coffee (all metaphorically, of course).

The son of a bitch did it again. _How the hell did he get in—_when _the hell did he get in? _

Matthew didn't seem to notice his inner turmoil. Instead, he was squinting his eyes in the direction of the doorway, as if trying to see what Joe was so riveted by. It went without saying that Morgan was unaware of Solomon's little game of _Where's Matthew? _because Joe would sooner light himself on fire than have his friend realize that he had never caught him, not even once.

Damn pavement artist.

"You're late." Joe deadpanned.

As Matthew slid into the seat opposite him, absently waving his hand dismissively, glancing at the door curiously, Joe pondered briefly if he dressed his friend up in the red-and-white striped Waldo get up (pompom hat and all) if he'd be any easier to spot.

_Probably not. The man put Houdini to shame. _

"Let me guess, you were eyeing the brunette in the red sweater." Matthew said as his attention now locked onto the café's menu. The man always tried something new, Joe noted vaguely. Did he plan on tasting everything the joint had to offer? Although, even Joe knew Matthew had the sweet tooth of a toddler, the one who snuck away candy bars from his parents' bowl on Halloween night to keep for himself. "'Cause she was most definitely eyeing _you_."

"Right. That's what I was doing." Another sip of coffee.

"You shouldn't be undressing women with your eyes, what would Abby say?"

This time, Joe actually did choke on his coffee and _don't think he didn't see that smirk of yours, Morgan!_

Matthew was a sharp one, a tad too mischievous as well, he wouldn't be such a revered spy if he wasn't, and there was only one method of diverting from the topic of one green-eyed beauty that Joe knew of that had a success rate of 100 percent.

And he was not afraid to use it.

"So, how's the baby?"

_Crisis averted. _

The blissful grin on Matthew's face brought Joe back to his earlier statement: never in his life had he seem someone look _that _damn happy. Euphoria practically permeated the air around the booth like a perfume, and Joe could have sworn that there were mythical flowers blooming around the man as he beamed. The man looked like he puked out sunshine and butterflies, for goodness's sake.

Joe didn't think of himself as a pessimist, but to be frank, it was downright _creepy_.

"Rachel had an ultrasound earlier today." Matthew was in his own little world of rainbows at that point, scones and muffins and coffeecake completely forgotten as the neglected menu was swept aside.

"Wow." Joe stated. His enthusiasm was one of someone watching paint dry. "You actually have a legitimate reason for being late today."

Matthew just continued to smile sagely, the jab merely batted away.

"It's going to be a boy."

A moment of silence.

Eyes widening, Joe gaped a bit at his friend, before smiling sincerely, "Congratulations, Matthew." He meant it too. He knew how eager his best friend was to have a mini-Matthew toddling around (and, if he was anything like his father Joe thought, they'd need to put a tracking device on the kid the moment he learnt to crawl).

Joe was rewarded with another heartfelt grin from Matthew. Waving over a waitress, Matthew took his order—raspberry and white chocolate scones with a peppermint hot chocolate—before he turned his attention back to Solomon.

"What are you going to name him?" Joe asked. "I recall from sometime during our teen years you said something about finding a woman with the surname 'Jass' telling her to keep it when you married, and promptly naming your first child 'Hugh.'"

"Hey, that doesn't count." Matthew countered indignantly, but the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. "I was drunk. In fact, if _I _recall, _you _got me drunk. I'm afraid 'Hugh Jass' is _your_ responsibility, my friend."

Joe waved it off. "Inebriated or not, those words left _your_ mouth, not mine."

When the waitress had brought his food, Matthew threw a scone at his friend, who of course caught it before taking a bite, an amused smile on his face.

Matthew moodily bit into his own little scone, but it did not take a highly trained operative to see the humorous light in his eyes. "Since he'll take on the last name Morgan, we're naming him after Rachel's maiden name."

Joe nodded in his approval. "So Mister Cameron Morgan it is then?"

"Mister Cameron Morgan, indeed."

* * *

Several months had passed since that time in the quaint café.

A total of four months and three weeks, in fact.

So it was only to be expected that Matthew Morgan was a lot more than just a little peeved about being assigned to a mission, a very menial one at that, out of the country. So there the three of them sat—Joe, Matthew and a fellow operative Maxwell Edwards—on a stone bench in a park in London with local food items sitting in their laps. The way he was biting rather violently at his custard tart, Joe noted, was probably Matthew imaging the pastry was the Director of the CIA.

"You're acting like you're the one pregnant, Matthew." Joe punched his friend's shoulder. "Cut out the mood swings. The mission can't be helped."

Matthew muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Isn't this what the goddamned MI6 is for?"

In Swahili.

Maxwell snickered behind his burger.

Joe Solomon sighed. _He was surrounded by children__._

* * *

**Number of gunmen present: 45**

**Number of minutes needed to capture them (approximately): 150**

**Number of times Joe had ever seen Matthew Morgan look genuinely shocked: 1**

"Hey!—" Joe called before slamming a foot into a gunman's stomach, neatly transitioning to roundhouse kicking another in the face. "Hey, what's wrong?"

Of all the responses that Joe thought he'd hear from Matthew's mouth, what was heard was the last thing Joe thought he'd say.

"Rachel's water broke!"

One moment later.

One Wendeskley maneuver later.

And three—no, wait—four broken down gunmen later.

"And exactly _how the hell do you know that?_" Joe demanded, not even bothering to mask the incredulousness in his voice. Another gunman was brought down, this time being thrown via window. Joe had no doubt in his mind Maxwell had already made a steadfast pile outside the building.

The guy was just orderly like that.

"The earrings I gave her—" Matthew slammed his fist in a man's face. "—they monitor the status of her body—"

"You _hotwired _your wife?"

"Obviously for a good reason!"

Cue kick to man's groin.

"_Matthew!"_

"It was Abby's idea!"

Another enemy agent left the building via Maxwell and window. Said operative looked over at his comrades. "Hey Daddy Dearest, sorry to break it to you, but I kind of doubt you'll be able to be back in time for Rachel's labor."

A moment of not-so-complete silence (_"Max—_stop_ throwing them out the window." Joe ordered)._

What Edwards said seemed to finally hit Matthew, his eyes almost comically wide.

"_Out of my way, you son of a—"_ A long slew of Czech profanity were spat, each curse like a bullet, from one enraged Matthew Morgan.

Joe Solomon prided himself in being an operative who could work even under the greatest fear and pressure, but seeing the chaotic trail of unconscious bodies being left behind at an alarming rate by a still cussing and ferocious Matthew Andrew Morgan—he couldn't help but feel that for the very first time in a very long time, he was a tad frightened of his best friend.

It didn't help that Edwards lifted the gloved hand of one of the unconscious assailants on the ground, only to watch it fall limply back to the grimy floor, lifeless as a puppet.

Edwards let out a low whistle, eyeing the one man bloodbath taking place. "Jesus Christ."

Only a solemn nod from Solomon: "Indeed."

* * *

The estimated fight time was supposed to be approximately 150 minutes, two and a half hours.

Any properly trained agent should at the very least be able to approximate the amount of time their battle should take. Joe had always found that if the number of minutes it took was far less than expected, it was advised to keep an extremely high guard in case of possibility of the enemy feigning their battle strength and having it biting you in the ass later. This logic of course worked the other way as well—if the fight was dragging out longer, obviously one's guard isn't high _enough. _

Joe Solomon had near complete faith in this system, for it had _at least_ a 95.8 percent accuracy rate.

Obviously like his ghostlike abilities, logic meant absolutely _nothing _to Matthew Morgan.

53 minutes. It had taken only but 53 minutes to fully capture the group of gunmen and arsons and take them into custody.

The man fought like a spawn of the devil to cut down that time. It was because of this that the three of them were now sitting on a cozy private jet back to the United States, with filet mignon and an LED screen TV galore. While the mission had been cleared successfully, Joe was beyond certain that the strain was not healthy for the human body, even if that human body was a highly trained CIA agent.

One of the reasons why he was trying to get his best friend to _sit his ass down._

"Matthew."

No response. The aforementioned man only continued his pacing.

Glancing up from his novel he was so enthralled with, Maxwell attempted. "Earth to Matthew…"

A _People _magazine was promptly thrown at Matthew Morgan's face with the ferocity and accuracy of a pro baseball player's fast ball. He spun around to face Joe. "_Matthew. _Sit down now before you wear a hole through the bottom of the plane and plummet to your death. And before you give me a headache from watching you."

Matthew ran a hand through the mess of dishwater blond on his head. "I am _not_ going to miss the birth of my child. And I am _not_ leaving Rachel to do it alone."

"You won't miss it." Joe said with assertion. It was all he could really offer his friend at the moment. "And calm down—Rachel's not alone, Abby's with her."

The tension seemed to ease a bit out of Matthew's shoulders for a moment at the mention of his sister-in-law, and he nodded slowly. It was a matter of seconds however when suddenly his friend's head snapped to the left, eyes staring in the direction of the cockpit with a contemplative intent Joe did not like.

"No. You are _not_ piloting this plane." Joe stated firmly.

"I didn't even say—"

"No."

"It was just a thought,"

"No."

"I'm certified to—"

"_No."_

"Fine." Matthew acquiesced and sat back down, and Joe would have left it at that if not for the fact his restless friend was sitting unusually still. _No one _was still after a mission, most definitely not a man who had gone on a spree full of (mostly) illegal martial arts maneuvers.

A moment of silence.

Joe narrowed his eyes at him. "Whatever you're thinking now, the answer is also no. Now go to sleep." Faced with the sight of his friend's hesitance, Joe sighed. "If I really didn't think you wouldn't get there in time, do you think I'd be this calm? Just go to sleep, the next time you wake up—you'll be holding your son."

A silence reined the air and only a moment or two later Joe watched with a bit of mental approval at the blanket Matthew had finally hoisted over himself.

Matthew smiled, genuine and sincere. "Thank you, Joe. That means a lot."

"And also, the adrenaline running through you right now won't hold up for forever, so chances are, if you don't sleep now, the strain from going absolutely ballistic on those enemy agents from before just may cripple you. While you're holding your son." Joe stated matter-of-factly, watching emotionlessly as his friend's pallor became paler and paler at the prospect. "And I don't think you want to drop Mister Cameron Morgan while you're holding him, now do you Matthew?"

Never before had Joe Solomon seen anyone fall asleep faster.

* * *

Seeing one Abigail Cameron, dressed in a sleek gunmetal business suit and tall black heeled boots, in a rather quaint, pastel colored hospital in a miniscule part of Nebraska, was a strange sight to see, specifically to Joe.

But Solomon supposed he shouldn't judge, considering his best friend's hair looked like a wet cat had slept on it only to have a rude awakening later. Speaking of that frazzled best friend of his, in the mere moment it took Joe to blink, Matthew was gone from his side and Joe watched his back as he urgently followed a nurse into what he could only assume was the delivery room. Joe observed with care, and perhaps with a tad of guilt, as he watched the slightly strange walking pattern Matthew sported.

Apparently Joe wasn't the only one to notice. "You drugged him, didn't you?"

Solomon shrugged. "Perhaps just a little bit."

Abby arched a trim brow and Joe felt the sudden need to defend his actions. "The man was vibrating in anxiety on the way here. We need him here for Rachel in the delivery room, not so another doctor can treat him for a heart attack. Besides," Joe eyed his friend. "I was not the one to hotwire my pregnant sister."

The brunette placed a well manicured hand to her chest. "You have a pregnant sister?"

Slipping his hands into the pockets of his jeans, Joe appraised Abby. "Earrings, Abby?"

Abby grinned in that vivacious way of hers. "Maternity care is quite a topic nowadays back at Research & Development, you know." She examined her nails. "Besides, they were cute."

"I see."

The woman before him cocked a hip. "Well, it was effective, wasn't it? It got both of you here before Rachel actually started birthing that nephew of mine, didn't it?"

The corner of Joe's mouth jerked in a sort of half-grin. "I'll give you that—"

He would have continued had the red light next to the delivery room not just blazed to life.

A nurse hurriedly rushed to stand at the now open threshold of the delivery room, uttering three words that made two extensively trained spies of the Central Intelligence Agency freeze in a way they hadn't done since they were inexperienced adolescents.

"The baby's here!"

* * *

If there was anything that Joe had learnt over the years, it was to notice things at any given moment, even in times of great stress—_especially _in times of great stress.

So of course when his long time friend was going into labor, it was only natural for him to take a mental inventory of everything that was going on—_because Rachel was going into freaking goddamned labor._

**Number of times Rachel Morgan cursed: 34**

**Number of **_**languages**_** Rachel Morgan cursed **_**in**_**: 19**

**Number of times the obstetrician said "It's going wonderful" when it obviously was not to the expected mother: 30 (note how the numbers of this and "Number of times Rachel Morgan cursed" are quite close in range) **

**Number of times Matthew looked ready to fall unconscious: 28**

**Number of times Abby smacked his head to keep him awake: 27 (the one time she had not, Rachel had muttered some rather colorful words to her husband that if he passed out, things would not be pretty)**

**Number of hours it had taken Joe to realize that he should probably grab some water for his friends before any of them withered away from dehydration: 5**

Joe opened the door, bottles of water under his arm, to hear a shrill wailing, that this time was not one from Rachel that had not been there before. Being the tempered spy that he was, he could name off multiple things at that moment. How Rachel's dark strands were matted more to the left of her head with sweat, how Abby had pretty much chipped away that pretty manicure of hers on seven of her fingers, as well as how the one of the nurses was ogling him in a way that a nurse should not do when a delivery was just made.

And, though Solomon was a man who lived by the code that details meant life or death, he was completely convinced that these things _did not matter. _

Pink.

It was a pastel pink bundle that lay in Matthew's protective arms, not a baby blue.

Matthew smiled softly, motioning with the tilt of his head for him to come closer. Joe complied, eyes still wide and water long forgotten.

"She's a girl."

"I guess they made a mistake with that ultrasound."

Matthew shrugged a bit, careful as to not jostle the newborn, smile still intact. "It just may be the best mistake of my life then."

Joe watched Matthew closely, but it hadn't taken more than a second to realize that the man held no disappointment at not having a son. Not if the tender way he was holding the girl was any indication of it. There was a light in his friend's eyes that had never been there before—it was a kind of warmth that made Joe want to laugh and his chest want to _ache, _and Joe knew then and there that there would be absolutely _nothing_—nothing short of death baring down on him itself_—_in the world that would keep Matthew from being by his daughter's side.

Ruddy cheeks, now wiped dry, with a scrunched up face with a button nose. Her small mouth had ceased its wailing and closed as the newborn snoozed away, chest beneath the blanket rising and falling steadily. A small tuff of fluffy light brown locks could be seen from under the soft blanket encasing the small body.

As if on its own volition, Joe's hand had already lifted and his finger softly brushed against one soft pinkish cheek. Without taking his eyes off the napping babe, only vaguely noticing he had bent down to her height at some point, Joe asked softly. "Same name?"

Joe felt Matthew nod, and was certain his friend was still smiling warmly.

"In that case," Joe proclaimed, albeit it was more a whisper than anything else. "It is nice to finally meet you, Miss Cameron Morgan."

* * *

**Two months later.**

"—oh, Abby you're back." Joe watched as Rachel looked up from the files she was sifting through to the younger sister standing in the doorway. "How was Buenos Aires?"

A string of angry, derogatory terms flew from the younger woman's mouth in an instant. Joe vaguely noted that there was a name that sounded oddly like _Townsend _somewhere in the rush of curses. This was all done in Spanish, of course. And from what he could tell from the younger of the two, Joe knew Abby was still rather jumpy from her mission, the same Matthew had been all those two months ago (perhaps not to the extreme Matthew had been, but still).

"…I see." Rachel frowned. "Abigail, I don't care how much of a pain this Townsend was, no kicking furniture."

At this, Abby arched her eyebrows, retracting her foot from a nearby ottoman. "Wow. Sounding like a mother already."

"Nope, just years of having a troublesome baby sister." Rachel smiled angelically.

Abby was about to retort with something that was neither ladylike or in English, for that matter, had Matthew not entered the room, coddling a familiar baby girl with large, round eyes in pink footie pajamas. Joe noticed the fluff of light brown had lightened to a dirty blond reminiscent of her father's dishwater blond and had grown to more of a mop than anything else. At the sight of his sister-in-law, he grinned. "Hey! How was Buenos Aires?"

Cue another kick to an abused ottoman.

Matthew winced sympathetically. "That bad, huh?"

As if feeling the tense atmosphere, Cam let out a soft squeal before reaching out with short, little and expectant arms out to her aunt, doe eyes begging to be held. The storm on Abby's face seemed to dissipate for the time being as she got her turn of therapeutically coddling her adorable niece, happy squeals and giggles filling the air. But Joe kept a note to not mention "Buenos Aires" any time soon near the brunette, and expected Matthew to look the same but lo and behold, the man was frowning petulantly.

Like a child who had gotten his brand new football taken away. (The football in this case being Cameron Morgan, though Joe was pretty sure his friend would be happy about hearing this simile of his).

Running a hand down his face, Joe grinned almost wearily, but the fondness of it all was not lost on anyone who gazed at him. But still—someone _please_ tell Joe Solomon that his best friend _was not pouting_.

"She conquered him." Joe stated, eyeing the way Matthew brightened once again as Cameron was handed back to him. "Wrapped around her little finger and everything."

"That's how the Cameron women work." Abby said, swaggering over to him to lean on the armrest of the couch. With arms crossed over her chest, and her head cocked high in the air, Abigail exuded a sense of pride with a grin. "She'll be breaking hearts in no time."

Evidently from the way Matthew froze from where he sat on the floor, he had heard that. He glanced silently down at the cooing baby girl practically swimming in his lap with wide eyes. As if feeling his still gaze, Cammie looked back at him with equally large eyes, before continuing with that charming babyish gurgling of hers and playing his her daddy's lap, tiny hands gripping his fingers tightly.

"The day that happens, bones will be breaking in no time as well." Joe stated, and from the way he hoisted Cammie into his protective arms as he babbled nonsense along with her, he knew Daddy Dearest wholeheartedly agreed. Solomon gave a mental sigh—_Miss Morgan just may be the death of a boy in the distant future._

He then thought back to the catastrophic one-man army Matthew had become that day, Cammie's birthday, plowing through gunmen like a tank would do ants, reliving that doomsday of carnage and unconscious bodies galore.

He sighed for real this time.

Joe pitied the imbecile who would fall in love with Cameron Ann Morgan.

* * *

_**(Author's Note)**_**: *please excuse sorry sense of humor & fanfiction's format just about kills me.**

And that was my interpretation of what could have happened at the birth of Cameron Ann Morgan. Once again, _**interpretation, **_you may go ahead and tell me if any of the other characters are OOC, but I shall stand with what I did for Matthew Andrew Morgan—am I the only one who thought of him as a doting kind of father?

Anyways, I read Out of Sight, Out of Time and had such an intense burst of inspiration that lasted about two days, and gave birth to this one-shot, as well as another one-shot I've been working on. And To Spy or Not to Spy of course! **Also, the whole "hotwire" thing, reference to** Bex's voluntary shock therapy. **

**Anyways, thoughts? Comments? Anyone is free to spazz with me about the book!**

ALSO: THIS WAS WRITTEN FOR THE PREVIOUS GENERATION CHALLENGE, issued by thefrostedrose. It was fun to write for—made me want to spend some good quality time with my own father, you guys should too (whether with your father or writing, up to you)! I'd love to read what you come up with :D

With warm regards,

Diva

P.S. Again, anyone willing to beta this one-shot?


End file.
